Crossroads
by Zarah
Summary: [Harry/Draco Slash] Wherein the clock in the Great Hall is always late. Harry is late as well, but only for breakfast, and Draco... Well, Draco understands. The clock, that is.
1. Fragments

**Author:** Zarah

**Pairing:** Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

**Rating:** R

**Warning:** Slash Romance, meaning that it deals with a male/male relationship! Please don't read if you can't handle.

**Pretty Version:** [Here] 

Note: I choose the most random pairings ever. That's the joy of blissful insanity! 

**Thanks to: **Ria. Now, I won't say that she's the best editor ever. All I can say is that to _me_, she is.

Summary: Wherein the clock in the Great Hall is always late. Harry is late as well, but only for breakfast, and Draco... Well, Draco understands. The clock, that is.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. - This disclaimer was borrowed from [Schnoogle]

* * *

**Crossroads**

**Part 1: Fragments**

* * *

The clock in the Great Hall was slow, the silver hand always separated from reality by exactly one step. With the beginning of the morning lessons, it moved from _Get up, sleepyheads! _to _Dig in_, when lunch was ready, the hand moved to _Time to do something about that empty brain of yours_. It was one step behind reality, always.

Lately, Draco Malfoy understood.

Every morning, it was like waking up to a new world. New reports, new information, new alliances, new revelations about who supported the Dark Lord and who didn't. Everything was moving so fast, and sometimes, Draco felt as if he just couldn't keep up with the pace the rest of the world had set for him, no matter how hard he tried. He could pretend, of course he could - his years of practice at the Malfoy Mansion hadn't been wasted -, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. It wasn't that he wanted to stop the world from turning, but he wished it would revolve around him, only from time to time. Only long enough for him to sort out a few things, his future being one of them.

Chewing on a biscuit, left over from yesterday's Christmas dinner, Draco let his calm gaze drift through the Great Hall, ignoring the annoying chatter of the few other students that were spending their holidays at Hogwarts. There weren't many of them, only nine. Most parents preferred to have their children with them for Christmas, especially in times like these. It was ironic, in some ways; Hogwarts was most likely the safest place there was, yet parents were afraid to let their children stay.

It was probably more sad than ironic. 

Teachers and house elves had put all their effort into making it easier for the few who stayed (for whatever reasons); ever-glowing colour-changing candles, sparkling Christmas trees and singing Christmas angels had been placed all over the castle, and the scent of baked apples and cinnamon lingered in the air wherever they went. Grey clouds overcasted the ceiling in the Great Hall, barely visible through the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes that melted in mid-air, before coming even close to the floor. Fake ice decorated the walls, glistening in the glow of flickering candles and the few rays of light which made it through the falling snow; a thin layer of ice also spread over the table at which they were sitting. 

Draco rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow propped up on the table, and lowered his lashes, eyes studying the pattern the ice made on the table. Swirls of white mixed with half-transparent grey, gradually modulating into complete transparency, only reflections of light betraying its presence. He felt as if he were staring into a crystal ball and wasn't able to recognise any clear shapes, maybe because his mind was - as Professor Trelawny would have put it - too mundane.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly in annoyance as one of the students near him laughed out loud. In an abrupt move, he pushed his plate away and got to his feet, his robes rustling because of the sudden commotion. He felt rather than saw Dumbledore's forehead furrow in thought as he made his way towards the door leading to the marble stairs. He didn't care.

* * *

Harry Potter squinted into the blinding white, the hood of his coat and the scarf he had slung around his neck covering most of his face. He should have waited for the wind to die down, for the snow flurry to let up before leaving Hagrid's hut to make his way back to the castle, where the present students and teachers were already having breakfast. But he hadn't, of course he hadn't. Assuring Hagrid that he would be fine, that it was a walk of merely five minutes, he had left the safety of the hut and stepped out into the snowstorm. 

In retrospect, it had been a rather stupid decision. 

Harry cursed quietly as he stumbled over something he hadn't seen because quite frankly, he couldn't see _anything_; the snow being blown against his glasses obscured his view, reducing his visual range to about three feet around him. It would be somewhat easier if he had remembered the water-repelling spell Hermione had used for his glasses once. Harry half-heartedly dusted the snow off his coat, knowing that it was only a matter of seconds until it would be covered in white again. 

He shielded his eyes against the snow, trying to gauge how far away the castle was and whether it would be safer to return to Hagrid to wait there until the blizzard was over, but it was hopeless. He had no idea which way he had come, his footprints disappearing the moment he took the next step, leaving no trace that could lead him back to the hut. His only choice was to move forward in what he _suspected_ was the direction of the castle. It was hard to tell, and a Tracing spell wouldn't work since part of the Unplottable spell surrounding Hogwarts was that it was impossible to assign a certain direction to the castle.

Again, Harry stumbled over an obstacle in his way, and it was mere instinct that made him stretch out his arms just in time to catch his fall. Under his palms, he felt a smooth, cold surface which surely couldn't be frozen grass. It felt more like frozen water, which would mean... The lake? Had he really lost track of direction enough to get himself onto the frozen lake without even noticing? It sure seemed like it.

He shuddered slightly, more out of reflex than because he was really cold. Ever since the Triwizard disaster three years ago, he had, well. Not exactly avoided the lake, but regarded it with no small amount of mistrust, in much the same way as he would have observed a blind basilisk. He had even more reason to be wary now; Dumbledore had warned them not to set foot on the lake because no matter how safe it looked, it wasn't. The layer of ice was mostly thick enough to carry the weight of a not too heavy human being, but not everywhere; there were still places in the middle of the lake where the ice was barely enough to conceal the icy cold water underneath. 

Harry reached inside his pocket, numb fingers searching for something solid, until they finally closed around his wand. A wave of relief washed over him; just the simple feel of his wand in his hands reassured him immensely. 'Lumos!' he yelled, the howling of the wind reducing his voice to a whisper. The thick clouds of whirling snow almost smothered the golden glow emanating from the wand, but the friendly light still calmed his fluttering nerves. 

He took a tentative step forward in what he assumed to be the direction of the castle, not putting his full weight onto his leg until he was sure that the ice would bear his weight. His knees, bearing a strange resemblance to Jell-O, probably weren't supposed to tremble that much, but there was really nothing he could do about it - besides get himself off of that disturbingly thin layer of ice. Fast.

It would have been so much easier if he had been able to see where the castle lay. As it was, all he could do was trust his instinct and hope that it would guide him right into the Great Hall, or, even better, into the Gryffindor Tower. A hot shower sounded like heaven.

His eyes narrowed to slits, one of his hands still shielding his glasses, the other holding his wand, he took another step which would - hopefully - bring him closer to the safe shore. The ice seemed to carry him.

* * *

It was common knowledge that the clock in the Great Hall was always one step behind reality, and it was merely a coincidence that Draco glanced at it on his way out. The hand pointed at _Dig In_. 

_Dig In_. 

There were only three things important enough to interrupt the usual routine of the clock: The scores whenever the English Quidditch team was playing a match, a warning when a student was in danger, or, worse, when a student was dead. The last one was a simple black surface, only the name of the student written in white, ornate writing and the date of his birth and death appeared. The hand had pointed at it too many times in the course of the last years. 

Still, there were three possible explanations as to why the hand had moved already. Three possibilities. 

The next match of the English team was almost one month ahead. Which left two. Two possibilities.

It took Draco a moment of startled realisation, then he whirled around, grey eyes sweeping over the heads of the students occupying the table in the middle of the room. There were seven of them, not counting Draco himself. Seven. Not eight. Seven. 

"Where's Potter?" His voice, intensified and echoed by the walls, sounded much too loud to his own ears, and he flinched, shoulders hunching slightly as his eyes met Dumbledore's searching gaze. For a moment, they stared at each other, then, at the same time as Dumbledore's eyes settled on the clock, Draco turned and left the room, his movements, though radiating the elegance and confidence that were said to be typical for him, lacking their usual concentrated precision.

* * *

Another step.

Harry had long since lost count of how many he had already taken, the ice threatening to break under him with each single one he took. It was like having to stroke a Blast-Ended Skrewt, never knowing when it would explode.

Another step. 

He heard the ice splitter before he actually felt it giveunder his feet, and in his instinctive attempt to throw his body backwards, he put even more weight on the too thin layer beneath him, making it break with a sickening crack. For a breathless moment, he hung in mid-air, the ground under his feet suddenly no longer where it had been before. Then he came crashing down, icy cold water swallowing him with a gurgle, closing in on him, the brutal cold making him gasp for air as his wand slipped out of his fingers, rolling a few feet on the ice before coming to a rest. His arms braced on the ice, supporting his body to keep from sinking completely into the black water, he reached for it even as it rolled away, but it was hopeless. The wand lay close, so close, its golden glow friendly and promising, yet it was completely out of his reach.

God, he should have stayed with Hagrid.

In an attempt to stop the dark, merciless panic rising in him, Harry forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, consciously blocking every thought of his quickly numbing lower body. _Breathe. In. Out. Yes, like that. _It was hard to tell how long ago it was that the ice had broken under him; not more than a single minute probably, although it felt like hours already. He slowly put a little more weight on his arms, cautiously testing whether he would be able to pull himself out, but the dangerous cracking sound made him ease the pressure immediately. 

If only he could reach his wand. 

* * *

Draco was fighting his way through the snow towards the broomshed, rationality put aside. Nothing made it through to his consciousness; not the thought of how dangerous flying, in this storm, would be; not the objection that he was supposed to hate the person he was trying to find so desperately. Nothing but a consuming fear that made his stomach twist and caused his breath to come out in short, painful gasps, the cold air burning in his lungs.

He didn't know what it was, but there was something inside of him that pushed him forward, through the falling snow and against the wind that changed direction every five seconds. A dark, blurred building slowly emerged from the white as he came closer, and although there was nothing to prove his suspicion right, Draco was sure that it was indeed the broomshed. 

It was. Closing the wooden door required a lot of effort as the wind blew into the small shed with full force, and when Draco finally succeeded, he leaned against the wood, panting, trying to catch his breath. His broom was locked in a cabinet along with the other brooms of the Slytherin Quidditch team, but the door to the cabinet burst open when he yelled the password, Draco's broom zooming into his hands in reaction to the Summoning spell he muttered. 

For a few moments, he stood in the middle of the small room, unmoving, staring down at the broom in his hands. Something wasn't right. Something had changed since he'd entered the shed, and he tilted his ear against the door, listening. He didn't hear anything, no sounds coming from the outside, and it took him precious seconds until he realised that it was the wind that had changed. Everything was calm, and instead of the rattling windows and howling snowstorm from before, there was only silence, eerie and thoroughly unsettling. 

He cautiously opened the door, but the snow was still there, falling in thick, heavy flakes. Only the wind had blown itself out. Using his heel to close the door behind himself, Draco mounted his broom, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness of the snow, so different from the dim illumination inside the shed. Then he kicked off from the ground, soaring up into the sky and providing his eyes with the almost impossible task to find one dark-haired, slender figure amongst the blinding white.

* * *

He was not supposed to feel sleepy. Frightened, yes. But not sleepy. He couldn't allow himself to close his eyes, or rest his chin on his arms which were still braced on the ice. But somehow, none of that really seemed to matter. 

Shaking himself out of his unnatural fatigue, Harry raised his head and looked around. The snow was still falling, but the storm was over, and Harry supposed that it wasn't quite as cold as before. With an immense effort of will, he twisted his body around, forcing his legs to tread water as he slowly braced himself on the layer off ice. He inched his way up, his upper body gradually moving out of the water and onto the rather thick, slippery ice, his breathing calm and controlled. _No sudden movements_, he repeated to himself, over and over again, like an incantation. _No sudden movements_. 

His eyes were fixed on his hands, knuckles white from the effort it took him to pull himself out of the water without having anything really solid to hold on to. _No sudden movements._ Trying to move as little as possible, he inched a little higher up, doing his best to control the violent shuddering of his body. Then, suddenly and without warning, the ice broke under his hands, and for panicked moments, he felt himself being pulled downwards, beneath the dark surface of the water, until he got his legs to work enough to propel him back upwards, his hands blindly reaching for the edge of the layer of ice and finding it, finally. Suppressing a frustrated sob, he raised his head out of the water, feeling his hair freeze almost instantly. 

The force that lifted him up, out of the water and up into thin air, where he hung for a disorientated second, came as a surprise. Exhaustion suddenly overtaking him, he was only distinctly aware of floating, of gentle hands welcoming him, of a blanket wrapping itself around him. The last thing he saw before collapsing was a worried, white-bearded face bending over him to place a hot, much too hot hand on his forehead. 

"Thanks," he managed to mutter, not sure if Dumbledore heard it, and then darkness swept away his every thought. 

* * *

I'm sure that some of my regular readers are about to shoot me. But they don't know where I live. J Well, uh... Most of them don't. Hum.

My Writings: [What It Is...]   


* * *


	2. Drift

**Author:** Zarah 

**Pairing:** Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter 

**Rating:** R 

**Note: **This has been up on my homepage since about two weeks now. My computer is dead, so that's why it took me so long to upload this to ffn as well. 

**Thanks to: **Nina, for being my assigned Draco expert, and Ria, for being my assigned beta expert. 

**Summary: **Wherein the clock in the Great Hall is always late. Harry is late as well, but only for breakfast, and Draco... Well, Draco understands. The clock, that is. 

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. - This disclaimer was borrowed from [Schnoogle] 

* * *

**Crossroads**

**Part 2: Drift**

* * *

He was cold. 

That was probably the first thought that made it through the blissful oblivion that was his mind as he slowly drifted into consciousness. Keeping his eyes closed, Harry focused his attention on the scent of dried herbs that lingered in the room he was in - a strong mixture of Rosemary, Moonshadow and Desert Thyme. A soft blanket was covering his body, but despite the fact that it was thick, it wasn't warm enough. Nearby, he could hear someone work with what seemed to be glass bottles. The sound of them clinking together brought his sleep-fogged brain out of its state of dizzy awareness. 

The hospital wing. 

Groaning, Harry forced his aching body into a sitting position, every single muscle protesting against the movement. Feeling around for his glasses and finding them, he positioned them on his nose - where they belonged -, and took in his surroundings. 

It had been a while since the last time he had been here (a particularly rude foul by an opposing Beater had led to Harry twisting his arm), but not much had changed since then. Being the only patient at the moment, he had been placed in the main room, one door leading out to a fifth floor corridor, another to the adjoining sickrooms, and a third one into Madam Pomfrey's office. The room was decorated in plain white, the school nurse never being one to attach great importance to anything that distracted from her work. 

"You're awake," a voice came to Harry's left, and he turned his head, his smile rather weak. Madam Pomfrey had stopped sorting bottles that were filled with liquids of all colours into wooden shelves, and was now looking at him with a disapproving look, her hands on her hips. "That was a very stupid thing you did there, boy, wandering over the lake in this weather, and after Dumbledore specifically warned you not to set foot on it! As if I didn't have to heal your Quidditch injuries often enough." 

Sensing that telling her that he hadn't actually_ meant_ to wander over the lake would be pointless, Harry turned his smile up a few notches. "Sorry." 

She didn't smile back, but her grim expression softened considerably as she came over to examine him, muttering things which sounded suspiciously like 'it's a wonder you're still alive' and 'if Albus hadn't found you just in time'. Harry ignored her as well as you can ignore someone who is forcing your lips apart to check your tongue in the blue light provided by a wand. 

"What exactly happened?" he finally dared to ask, his own memory only fragmentary from the moment that the ice had broken under him on. 

Madam Pomfrey turned briskly to retrieve a goblet filled with what appeared to be white smoke, then shoved it into his hands with a sharp 'drink this!' that left no room for discussion. Harry did as he was told, the smoke running smoothly down his throat like honeyed milk. She watched him drink, then bent to take the goblet out of his hands, finally answering as she cleaned it with a short wave of her wand. 

"You fell into the lake and were about to freeze yourself to death in there when Dumbledore found you - lucky thing he did, what with that snow and all. Anyway, he got you out and back to the castle. Met Mister Malfoy halfway, crazy boy wanted to fly a few laps with his broom." 

"_Draco_ Malfoy?" Harry asked, his surprise clearly showing in his voice. Malfoy was the last person he could picture willingly mounting a broom if the weather wasn't as perfect as the Brochure for the Travelling Wizard always promised, but never delivered. 

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. "Yes. Had to treat him for a nasty cold because he didn't think of putting on decent winter clothes. But of course he got off better than you did." 

That somewhat explained her horrible mood, Harry thought. Two patients in one day was an alarming number, at least in the usually uneventful Christmas holidays. Definitely enough to seriously disgruntle Madam Pomfrey. 

Finally giving in to the wish of his tired body, Harry lay down again and closed his eyes, distantly aware of a hand being pressed against his forehead. "Still cold?" she asked, seemingly from somewhere far, far away. 

"Yeah," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and exhaustion. Rolling onto his side, he curled himself up into a tight ball to absorb whatever warmth he could get, but it didn't stop the violent shivers from running through his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, lashes brushing against the skin of his cheeks, he tried to block out the cold, tried to fall asleep, but it took him long, shivering minutes until exhaustion won over and let him drift off into a fitful sleep.   


* * *

The second time he woke up wasn't like the first time. There was none of the slow, gentle drift into awareness, none of the sleepy dozing. This time, it was like a flash of lightning shooting through his body, catapulting him into a sitting position as his hands reached for a wand that wasn't there. 

"Cute, Potter. Now all you have to do is curse the closest dustbin and you'll be the perfect replacement for Mad-Eye Moody." 

The slightly bored voice, laced with dark amusement, made Harry stiffen even more. He turned slowly in bed. "Is there an actual reason you're here, Malfoy, or are you just trying to be a pain in the ass, as usual?" 

Long, slender body sprawled in a chair that had been moved in front of the window, Malfoy looked at him, one of his eyebrows raised in mocking friendliness. Outside the building, Harry could see the snow still swirling around and around, clouds of it forming, then drifting apart again. Absently, he noticed that Malfoy looked almost silvery against the brightness outside, his hair reflecting the light, his eyes grey and mostly expressionless as he shrugged. "Just wanted to tell you how sorry I am." 

Harry's eyes narrowed, just waiting for the insult, the blow that was due to come. "You are?" he asked. 

"Yes." Malfoy nodded, tilting his head to one side. "It's a real shame Dumbledore found you in time." 

Harry kept his silence for a few long seconds, then shook his head. "Really, Malfoy. Even I wouldn't have thought you could be _that_ disgusting even if you tried." 

"It's a family gift." Again, Malfoy shrugged, and the careless grace of the simple movement reminded Harry of a cat. An unpleasant cat. Mrs Norris, maybe, only not quite as ugly. And brighter. 

"If I didn't know that it's humanly impossible to be proud of being born a Malfoy," again, Harry looked around for his wand, just in case he needed it anytime soon, "I'd say you were." 

"Well." Harry could feel that Malfoy was watching him through cool, unreadable eyes. "I think I prefer being a Malfoy over being raised by those Muggles you call your family. Though I probably should admire them for putting up with you after your parents got themselves-" 

"Shut it, Malfoy." Harry was glaring, his whole body tense. He ignored his protesting muscles. 

"Or what?" Malfoy asked. "You'll kill me with your bare hands?" 

Harry's voice was calm and controlled. It contrasted with the blazing green of his eyes. "I just might try to." 

"Oh, _really_?" Upon seeing Malfoy's lazy smile, Harry was tempted to at least try it, but considering the current state of his body, he knew that there was really no way he would end up being the winner. And wasn't it just amazing that Malfoy always, _always_ knew just how to push his buttons? Over the years, Harry had perfected his ability to ignore Malfoy, but ignoring and not noticing were two completely different things. Malfoy's words usually hit their target. 

Harry consciously forced his body to relax, his muscles to unclench one by one. "No." 

"Why not?" Something about the way Malfoy observed him reminded Harry strangely of the distant interest that would be in the gaze of a scientist, one of those who tested Muggle objects on their magic abilities by casting different spells on them and waiting for unusual reactions. 

Harry turned away and reached for the goblet standing on his bedside table. It was filled with a clear, dark blue liquid that didn't look exactly healthy, but Harry knew enough about Madam Pomfrey's potions to know that they rarely did and always were. He swallowed the whole content in one gulp and was surprised to find that it actually tasted good. Shaking his head against the small wave of dizziness washing over him, he glanced back at Malfoy. "Because you're not worth it." 

Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes reduced to slits. The snow, still falling in thick, cool flakes outside the window, stood in bright contrast to the heated tension filling the room, to darkened grey burning into green. Harry stayed motionless, waiting for Malfoy to fuel their anger further with his reply. 

That was how it worked between them, at least the times when Harry _didn't_ ignore Malfoy. Sometimes, it reminded Harry of the recipe for a potion: Make sure you obtain a good nasty comment before you start. Add an insult in reply - this should lead to an even nastier comment within a few minutes. Repeat the procedure - sprinkle sporadically with hateful gazes - and soon your hatred will be ready for bottling. Serves ten. 

And still Malfoy glared, glared and leaned forward while one of his hands rested on his knee, tense and white against the black robe. The other hand was out of sight, maybe buried in Malfoy's pockets and gripping his wand. 

The sudden opening of the door wasn't part of the recipe. Their intense eye contact broke, both of their heads turning to the person who entered. 

"Draco." Dumbledore gave the boy sitting in front of the window a warm smile and a brief nod, then he turned to Harry. "Harry. Glad to see you up and well again." 

Harry was tempted to object. His head hurt, his mouth felt dry and cottony and his muscles protested against the slightest move he made. At least he wasn't cold anymore, though that might just have something to do with his burning anger directed at Malfoy. Swallowing everything down, Harry returned Dumbledore's smile. "Thank you, Professor. Madam Pomfrey told me you were the one who found me." 

"Indeed." One of Dumbledore's hands stroked his long beard in a thoughtful gesture. "Although it was really just a lucky coincidence that someone looked at our clock at the right time." 

Harry didn't miss the glance Dumbledore sent Malfoy's way, but since he couldn't make anything of it, he shrugged it off. "How did you find me?" he asked instead. 

"Ah, now that you mention it..." Sitting down on the edge of Harry's bed with a weary sigh, Dumbledore reached inside the pocket of his coat. "I have two things to return to you." 

Face twisted into a cool smile, Malfoy stood up. "I'm just going to leave, then." His robes rustled as he made his way towards the door leading to the corridor, his steps soundless on the stone floor. 

"Could you wait outside for me, Draco?" Dumbledore seemed content to ignore the fleeting look of unwillingness in Draco's eyes as he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'll be just a minute." 

A curt nod which in itself pretty much said everything about how willingly Malfoy was obeying, then he was gone. Dumbledore turned his attention back to Harry who, now that he no longer had his anger to keep him warm, drew the blankets tighter around himself. 

"I believe these are yours," Dumbledore told him, handing him both his wand and a rolled up parchment. 

Fingers tightening around his wand in relief to have it back, Harry nodded gratefully, then motioned at the parchment. "What's...?" 

With a sound of discomfort, Dumbledore got to his feet and pressed a hand against his spine, shaking his head. "I'm not getting younger, it seems. Anyway. - This?" He followed Harry's gaze. "I believed it justified to borrow this from you. It comes in quite handy sometimes, doesn't it?" Briefly touching Harry's shoulder, he looked at him. "Be more cautious from now on, Harry. You frightened quite a few people, me being only one of them." 

"I didn't mean..." Harry bowed his head. 

"I know you didn't," Dumbledore conceded. "But unless there's really no other way, no one should be out in weather like that. So," Dumbledore's expression of seriousness eased slightly, "make sure to remember it and get some sleep now." 

"Thank you." Harry watched as Dumbledore left the room, then his eyes returned to the parchment in his hands. Unrolling it, he almost laughed, but didn't quite feel up to it yet. Placing both his wand and the Marauder's Map on the bedside table, he sank back into the pillows and let himself drift off into a slight, relaxing doze.   


* * *

Side by side, they walked in silence for long moments, the sound of their footsteps echoed by stone walls. The heads of a few people in framed paintings turned as they passed, watching them curiously, but Draco hardly noticed them. 

It was Dumbledore who broke the silence. "That was a very good thing you did today, Draco," he said, his voice quiet, but nevertheless carrying through the corridor. 

Making a noncommittal noise of disagreement, Draco kept his eyes ahead. 

"You saved someone's life," Dumbledore told him. 

"That wasn't me, Professor," Draco replied, still not looking at him. Instead, he frowned at an armour swinging its sword in what seemed to be the retelling of some glorious fight. Around the armour, a few painted knights and ladies were watching in interest, leaning out of their frames. 

"You played an important part in it." Dumbledore paused for a moment to listen to the creaking of the rusted iron. He grimaced. "Remind me to tell the house elves to oil the armours sometime soon." Then his attention turned back to their conversation. "If it hadn't been for you, Draco, then I wouldn't have noticed that anything was wrong until it was too late. You saved Harry's life just as much as I did, and trying to find him in that snowstorm was courageous. Courageous, but also," he smiled, "slightly stupid." 

"I wasn't trying to-" Draco protested. 

Dumbledore interrupted him. "Whatever you were doing out there, I would say that I'm very proud of you if I thought you'd be willing to hear it." 

Draco's frown deepened, but instead of making yet another unsuccessful attempt at protesting against Dumbledore's words, he kept his silence, looked straight ahead. 

"I know you are influenced by what your family expects of you." Dumbledore's voice was gentle. "But your family is not everything, Draco, and when you decided to stay here at Hogwarts instead of leaving for Durmstrang like a lot of your friends, you took your first step away from what your family considers right." 

"That was only because I didn't want to change schools one year before graduation," Draco said, his tone, his face, his whole body defiant. 

"You're standing at a road junction right now." Dumbledore stopped walking, waited for Draco to look at him. It was only reluctantly that Draco obeyed, his eyes expressionless as Dumbledore continued. "There are two ways for you to choose from, and only you know which one is right for you. Not your family, not I. You are the one who has to decide, Draco. And I think you made that decision this morning, when you went out to look for Harry." 

"I was _not_-" Draco started to speak, but Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him. 

"It doesn't matter what you say, Draco." A smile spread over his face, blue eyes sparkling. "You made an important decision this morning, and it was a good one." 

Silently, Draco stared after his retreating figure, one of his hands clenched into a nervous fist. It was the only sign of emotion he showed. Finally, upon hearing a high cackle that could only mean that Peeves was approaching, Draco shook his head. "I was not," he whispered, more to himself than to the armour that had given up on its sword fight and seemed to be watching him instead.   


* * *

I apologize for not thanking every single reviewer personally; I'm currently not able to use my own computer, so I don't have quite that much time. But, just so you know: It was appreciated. 

**Homepage:** [http://zarah5.bei.t-online.de/]  


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